I saw X.
It was tender, satiating for once. The first time we’ve connected that I left feeling… satisfied.
He was in tune with me. He listened to me and gave me what I wanted.
I felt his heart outside of his nervous system. I felt it on his body, tasted it on his skin, and heard it in his voice as he whispered to me.
He feels safe with me.
I spoke his love language as he laid his head on my bosom, and I caressed his head, back, and arms. I soothed him. I’m protective over him beyond myself.
I told him I cared about him and expressed other affections. I kissed his head. He’s my baby.
This time I adored him all the way.
We laughed and teased. I told him I felt safe with him. We held each other’s bodies, pressing skin against skin, rubbing our faces together, biting cheeks. He adores me.
We became yin and yang, and I loved it. Saliva and sweat—I didn’t mind.
I don’t need to know what it is anymore. I’ve worn myself out trying to understand.
I surrender.
He means something to me. What we have is genuine. It’s not some fantasy anymore. It’s real. Out of my head. Real.
I wanted to reassure him. Remind him that he’s special to me.
X is my lover, and I think I need him.
Time will continue, but I’m in a vulnerable place, and I’m no longer embarrassed to admit that I need him.
I needed him yesterday. We fell asleep on the phone.
I feel warm when he calls me his Mulberry.
We talked while I was at work, and I didn’t feel so alone in it all. I feel emotionally and spiritually safe knowing he’s here.
It’s easy to assume—or even wish—for more. Though I don’t think that’s us.
Something about X soothes me like a child checking to make sure their mother is still there, then finding out she is. The relief. The calm that follows.
Maybe I am not as strong as I thought.
This space is good.
I am chaos and loud. I am mad and an exciting time. I make safe spaces for people to exist, and they choose to exist with me.
Get to know someone long enough, and you’ll eventually see a piece of yourself in them.
I want to hold on to X.
I don’t want to let go of what we are.
I just don’t.
June 15, 2024
My, my, my, X.
Wind-chimes braid themselves
up and down my core,
shivers down my spine, fingers spaced apart.
My center solidifies and my mind melts—
a proper malfunction…
.
Sometimes I wonder if he sees me.
I see him.
No pressure, no law.
I need X for certain things,
he needs me for certain things.
.
It won’t last,
I hold on to the now.
Let go.
Lean…
.
I think we can be good for each other.
I reject the law
that says only permanence has worth.
Connection is enough,
even if it shifts and dissolves.
.
Our fingertips touch—
flashing life, lust, tenderness.
I’ve never seen his eyes before.
I recognize his touch as my own.
I remember the caress of every lover.
.
I don’t know him
But his wild is my wild.
I honor what we are,
without demanding what we are not.
I want.. I don’t receive..
I’m too solid
There’s something I’d..
I can see..
If he falls
Crystal Clear Confusion
The center is a labyrinth.
We close our eyes to seek it
It likes to absorb itself
in hues of the abyss
Our fragments hide and seek
Bend at the pond
That foreign transparent center
Crystal clear as confusion
By the Door of the Music Room
by the door of the music room
what does one do
when sound hums like prophecy
to the rhythm of one’s soul
spoiling all the way home
anointed with myrrh
a finger on the temple
what does one do
by the door of the music room
The One Who Stayed Grounded
He aroused me till numb
My heart sedated by his insanity
Caught me mid-revelation
Reaching for me at the height of his vision
.
I wanted him to come with me
But he wasn’t that type of guy
It pained him to watch me as I’d fly
Still front and center he’d release me wild
He ached to carry me whenever I fell
.
Rubbed me up with aloe vera
And intuitive kisses to heal
Wanted to make it well
Fading as I opened to it
Defeated in the win
So I held him also in sin.
Ripe and Mean
When we went without
I forgot my name
Things were not good
We’d be ripe and mean
We’d beg and fight
Skin splitting
Play tug of war with our faces
Growl through negative space
I am awake
I am awake
I am awake
I plead
insanity
I give
him control
Still
painting him in contrast
Sacred Beauty, Silent Battles
I was taught to be beautiful, no matter what I was going through.
A sacred ritual passed down—lipstick, clean clothes, perfume. Even in despair, my outer world had to glow. I’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.
High-functioning depression means I show up glowing—
even when I’m collapsing on the inside.
Because I was taught: no matter how you feel, look good so no one would know.
People assume I’m okay because I look okay.
Because I’m pretty. Because I dress well. Because I smile. Because I post.
But that’s the mask. That’s the part I learned young:
if you look put together, maybe no one will ask too many questions.
My mother raised and instilled in me to always show up looking good—no matter what. And so I did. Even when I was quietly dealing with depression, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts/attempts, a bottomless abyss of self-hate etc. I never wanted anyone to know. I just wanted to survive.
And now that I’m older that’s backfired. Now when I say, “I’m not okay,” people respond with, “But you look so good.”
As if beauty is proof of wellness.
As if pain can’t wear lipstick.
Not all sadness screams.
Some of it moves quietly—wrapped in silk, masked with laughter, walking through the world unnoticed.
High-functioning depression is being praised for your strength, carrying sorrow with elegance. All the while drowning in silence.
It’s shining bright, yet being invisible because you’ve mastered the art of seeming fine.
It’s exhausting.
Freegrandmaa 